


Afterglow

by illwick



Series: In Between [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7301548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had come to terms with letting go.  He just didn't know he'd have to do it twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus before this one. The parameters of this series are challenging: I want to write it so that nothing contradicts what's canon according to the show, but it involves a lot of back and forth and fact-checking and timelines and such. I've had couple of half-baked ideas that in the end I just couldn't get to jive with the canon and had to abandon them along the way. But the other day I was listening to "Afterglow" by Chrvches, and this one just came to me. Recommended pre-reading listening:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhgpqgrJr-4
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me! As before, this isn't chronological, so the previous entries in this series aren't required reading in order for this to make sense--but they do help to add backstory to what's written here.

The night John takes Sherlock's virginity, he knows he is passing the point of no return. 

It's not because Sherlock is a virgin and John has some delusional societally-imprinted misconception that this means Sherlock will become clingy and emotionally vulnerable following the encounter. John knows Sherlock, and he knows he's not like that. And although John is not entirely clear on how Sherlock relates to his own sexuality, he's fairly certain that the reason Sherlock has remained a virgin this long is not because he was "waiting for the one," or some similar nonsense.

Sherlock had been forthcoming with John about his inexperience the first time John had inquired directly about Sherlock's sexual history, which was about two weeks after their first sexual encounter together. Over a plate of takeout curry, he'd unceremoniously admitted to, "hand jobs, blow jobs, every form of frottage available, in every state of sobriety imaginable. Just not penetrative sex." John had nearly choked on his food. It wasn't that he thought of Sherlock as asexual, per se, but he'd envisioned his experience as limited based on his off-putting demeanor. But he knew Sherlock could be charming if he wanted something. And sex, apparently, was something that he wanted. On occasion. And strictly on his own terms.

John was happy to oblige. Their sexual encounters with each other remained brief and casual, and if John was perfectly honest with himself, it seemed the perfect solution to what he'd previously seen as an insurmountable problem. Sherlock's dependency on him isolated John from meaningful relationships with women, and John's addiction to Sherlock's adrenaline-fueled lifestyle prevented him from setting proper boundaries (or so Ella his therapist told him). So John had lived a life of alternating emotional anxiety (when he had a girlfriend) and suffocating celibacy (when he was without one), until that idle Tuesday night, shortly after the events of Bond Air, when he finally kissed Sherlock. After that, he and Sherlock started getting each other off on a regular basis. And John stopped seeing Ella altogether.

But it wasn't long before Sherlock propositioned penetrative sex. And while the idea turned John on (in fact, it turned him on so immensely that the first time Sherlock hissed _"I want you inside me"_ as John rutted against him, John came on the spot), the reality of it was much more sobering. It left John feeling uneasy.

And the unease, at the core of it, was not altruistic. John trusted that Sherlock knew what he wanted and was well aware of the consequences. The truth of it was, the unease was all John's.

Because if he was honest, fumbled hand jobs in the kitchen or blow jobs in the shower or a bit of light frottage on the landing or a mutual wank on the sofa all seemed somehow inconsequential, permissible by normal standards under extenuating circumstances. John knew a fair number of blokes in the army who'd resorted to such activities (though he himself never partook), and it didn't make any of them any less straight. Desperate times, desperate measures.

But deep down, John knew that his co-dependency with Sherlock did not strictly qualify as "desperate times." He knew that it was voluntary--well, as voluntary as it could be, considering that he often felt like a planet helplessly orbiting a supernova moments from obliteration. But he stayed with Sherlock by choice. He entered these _encounters_ by choice.

And if he took Sherlock to bed--really, truly took him to bed--that would mean the end of John as he knew himself.

Because all his life, John had wanted a picture-perfect happy ending: a house in the suburbs with a picket fence, two children (a boy and a girl, blond and boisterous), a pretty, English-rose of a wife, and perhaps a naughty dog to stir up some lighthearted mischief now and again. This was the image he would conjure in his mind when he was young, cowering as he hid in his wardrobe on nights when his father had had too much to drink and would storm through the downstairs overturning tables and smashing the china, screaming at anyone who dared cross him. It was the image he would conjure when Harry had a row with their mother and would storm out of the house into the inky night, swearing she'd never come back. And it was the image he conjured as he lay by the side of the road in Afghanistan under the relentless sun, willing himself to live--if not for himself, for them: for his unborn blond children and his unmet pretty wife.

He knew, deep down, that taking Sherlock to bed would somehow mean the unequivocal end to all that. And even if he had always sensed, buried under years of suppression, that this picture-perfect happy ending would never be his, it was one thing to doubt it. It was another altogether to let it go.

So John refused Sherlock's propositions of full-blown sex as firmly but politely as he could. And for the most part, Sherlock handled the rejection quite well, and seemed happy to settle for something less intense instead--which frankly shocked John, who was not used to Sherlock doing anything besides throw a tantrum when he wasn't given his way. But their sex life (could he call it that?) was varied, innovative, and frankly a bit kinkier than he'd anticipated.

He'd almost believed he'd dodged the bullet altogether, until one Sunday evening when Sherlock had been in a particularly dark mood. John had dished up plates of kebabs from the restaurant down the street and brought them to the sitting room, where Sherlock sat plucking his violin and glaring accusatorially at the empty fireplace.

"Dinner?" John asked as he sat down on the sofa, anticipating a flat-out rejection. To his surprise, Sherlock stood, turned, put down his violin, and made it over to John's place on the sofa in two swinging strides. He towered over John, jade-green eyes boring into him.

"...You're hungry?" John asked, incredulous.

"Yes, but not for kebabs."

With that, Sherlock _attacked_. There was simply no other way to describe it; one minute he was standing before John, the next he was on top of him, lanky legs folded on either side of of him, mouth attached to his neck, hands roaming with abandon. The moment John recovered from the shock he reciprocated, pulling Sherlock's hips down and grinding up into him, panting as Sherlock bit and sucked the sensitive spot below his left ear, hard enough to leave a mark.

"God, Sherlock..."

Sherlock reached between them to open John's trousers.

"John...yes...I want you...inside..." John pressed up into Sherlock harder. He was used to this sort of talk now; Sherlock used it to get him riled up, even if John never made good on it.

"Yes, Sherlock...want to fuck you...so bad..."

Suddenly Sherlock's warm mouth and strong hands were gone. He leaned back on his haunches, minimizing his contact with John.

"So take me to bed, John." John paused, the air of the sitting room suddenly feeling uncomfortably cool on his exposed skin.

"For...what? We can just keep going here. Please, don't stop." He reached for the back of Sherlock's neck and tried to pull him in for a kiss.

Sherlock pulled back and stared into John's eyes. "You know damn well for what."

John's hands dropped to his sides. "Sherlock, I don't... I think..."

"John, mark my words, because this will be the first and only time I ever say to you, _you're thinking too damn much_."

John heaved in an uneven breath, trying to slow his racing heart. "Sherlock, it's not that I don't want to. It's..."

"WOULD YOU PLEASE JUST FUCK ME ALREADY, I'M NOT MADE OF GLASS!"

"It's not that, truly..."

"Then what? What could it _possibly_ be, John, that scares you so much about having sex with me? I think I've made it fairly clear I'm not exactly a blushing virgin. You don't need to handle me like one."

"It's not that, Sherlock, it's truly not."

"So then what?"

"I...I don't know." It was the most honest answer John could think of to give. Perhaps he knew, in nebulous terms, that the reason for his hesitation was intrinsically linked to his ridiculous childhood fantasy of a picture-perfect happy (and heterosexual) ending, but there was no way he could verbalize that to Sherlock without offending him, no way to make him see...

"You _don't know_ " Sherlock's face contorted into a sneer, and he rose slowly but deliberately up off the sofa. "You don't _know_. You, John 'not gay,' 'three-continents' Watson, who earned a reputation in the _Army_ for your promiscuity, don't want to fuck me, and you claim not to know why. Let me hazard a guess: it's to do with the fact I've got a cock."

"Sherlock, please."

"Please _what_ , John?"

John didn't reply, averting his eyes. And just like that, Sherlock turned and kicked over the coffee table, shattering the plates and sending the kebabs sprawling across the floor. And suddenly, John was eight years old again, hiding in his wardrobe, the sounds of overturning tables and shattering china ringing up from downstairs.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, Sherlock was gone. John cleaned up the mess and went to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

The entire next day at work, John's stomach was in knots, and his feet felt heavy on his way home as he exited the Tube and made his way to the door of 221B. He almost yearned for Mrs. Hudson to intercept him and distract him with a bit of mindless gossip, but her windows were dark and her door closed. He drudged up the stairs and prepared for the worst.

But instead of the worst, he found Sherlock sitting at his microscope, his dark mood seemingly dissipated. He was setting up a long row of slides on the table, clearly mid-way through a new experiment, and a plate containing crumbs and a bit of crust suggested he'd eaten breakfast. 

"Ah, John, you're home. Did you pick up milk?"

"No...did you tell me to?"

"Yes, twice."

"Was I here?"

Sherlock paused. "Come to think of it, maybe not."

John sighed. "I'm making pasta for dinner. You eating?"

"I'll have some." It was a close to a 'yes' as he ever got.

Perhaps it should have been off-putting how easy it was to pretend that nothing was wrong, but John wasn't about to question it. They slipped easily back into their old routine, downing plates of pasta and watching reruns of bad telly, then Sherlock played his violin and John read for a bit, and finally John bid Sherlock goodnight and headed off to bed. 

John finally allowed himself to relax. He didn't need Ella to tell him that ignoring the elephant in the room was not the healthiest choice, but he didn't have the capacity (or perhaps the courage) to confront it. If he and Sherlock could go back to how they once were, that would be enough.

The only question was whether sexual encounters of any sort were still on the table. John resolved to let Sherlock answer that question; he'd let Sherlock make the first move if he felt so inclined.

_And if he doesn't?_ the little voice in John's head persisted. _What then? Back to awkward online dates and sloppy one-night stands with strangers from the pub?_

He would cross that bridge when he got to it. 

So John had simply resolved to let sleeping dogs lie, and that worked spectacularly for a full four days, until he came home to find Mycroft hovering outside the flat, cigarette in his mouth, umbrella shielding him from the torrential downpour. Mycroft told John the new intel on Irene Adler and her death in Karachi, and pushed her file into John's hands.

Even as John climbed the stairs to tell Sherlock the news, he was conflicted over what he would say. He resolved to tell him the truth; that she was dead, and that was that. He wouldn't sugar-coat it. Sherlock was an adult, after all. John was not his handler.

So he'd entered the kitchen, where Sherlock was still engrossed in the experiment he'd started four days prior, and steeled himself to deliver the blow. But the moment he mentioned Irene's name and Sherlock's eyes met his, something inside John shifted and changed. And as Sherlock walked to stand before John, always just a little too close, eyes wide and inquisitive, it was over.

No, John was not Sherlock's handler. But despite all appearances to the contrary, Sherlock _cared_. He cared for people in a way that was distinctly his own, and in a way that opened him up and made him vulnerable, but he never let it show. Sherlock had cared for Irene Adler. He had feelings. He was human. He could be hurt.

In that moment, John knew he could never hurt Sherlock again. Never could he harm this man by his own will. 

And yet that's what he'd been doing, up until that point, whether he admitted it to himself or not. By taking what Sherlock offered him sexually but refusing to commit in return, by encasing their relationship in layers of silence and ambiguity and denial, by keeping Sherlock close and coddled enough to be dependent but then pushing him away when it finally mattered--Sherlock cared for John. And John had hurt him. Never again. 

Sherlock may insist he wasn't made of glass, but he could be broken.

So John lied about Irene Adler. And Sherlock's face softened with relief, and John's chest unclenched. And when Sherlock asked for the camera phone ( _"Please"_ ), John knew as he handed it over that he would never deny Sherlock again.

Despite the rain, John walks to the Tesco and picks up some odds and ends as well as ingredients for stir-fry that night. He cooks while Sherlock composes, then the two of them sit down at the coffee table to eat and laugh as Sherlock makes deductions about the contestants on a game show. 

And when they're through, John stands and offers Sherlock his hand.

"Come with me," John says simply.

"Where?" Sherlock looks up at him, confused.

"To bed."

"For what?"

John smiles. "You know damn well for what."

Sherlock pauses. "Are you sure?"

John extends his hand further. _"Please."_

Without a word, Sherlock reaches up and takes John's hand. John leads him silently upstairs.

They kiss for what feels like ages, undressing slowly with a deliberate caution absent from all their previous encounters. When they finally divest themselves of the last of their clothing, John guides Sherlock to the bed, then reaches into his bedside table to fetch the lube and a condom. When he turns back around, Sherlock is sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed, lines of concern creasing his brow.

"Do you still want to do this? We don't have to, Sherlock. I'm also fine with everything we've been doing up until now. You don't have to do this just to keep me."

Sherlock shakes his head violently. "No, John, I want...please. I want."

He pulls John onto the bed with him and they tumble backwards together, mouths meeting and bodies pressing into one another, all warmth and urgency.

John pulls away and reaches for the bottle.

"Um, okay. So...this...this is going to be awkward. It always is the first time. But this part is new for me too, and I'm going to have a lot of questions, so just...bear with me, alright?"

He half expects Sherlock to roll his eyes or bark at him to _get on with it already_ , but Sherlock's looking just as nervous as John feels, and he just nods quietly.

"Okay, lie back, like that. Spread your legs for me, good...knees up. Now...have you--ever done any of this before? Like with fingers, or toys?"

"Fingers, when I masturbate, but only on occasion." Sherlock is honest and unashamed, and John can feel himself relaxing.

"Okay. Do you stimulate your prostate when you do? I know some guys like it, some don't..."

Sherlock huffs out a laugh. "Been doing some research, I see?"

John shrugs. "Ever the Boy Scout, I like to be prepared. Though I _am_ going to need you to help me clear out my internet history after this."

Sherlock laughs again and shakes his head. "To answer your question, no-- the angle isn't right for me to stimulate my prostate with my own fingers, and toys just seemed like more hassle than it's worth, so I haven't tried it before."

"Okay. We'll go slow." John slicks up one finger and then slowly presses it to Sherlock's opening, and slips inside. Sherlock's breath catches and John pauses, but Sherlock quickly nods and John carries on. Once fully inside, he begins to move his finger in and out, letting Sherlock get used to the slow drag. His breathing seems shallow, but John scans his face for signs of distress and sees none.

"Are you just going to stare at me like that?" Sherlock snarks. "I feel like you're giving me some kind of exam. Not that playing doctor isn't hot, but perhaps we save that for another time?"

"Oh! Right." John tries to snap himself out of it, get out of his own head. He lowers his lips to Sherlock's and kisses him slowly, deeply, then with a gentle press adds a second finger beside the first.

Sherlock gasps into his mouth, trembling slightly, and issues a whine from the back of his throat. "Good?" John asks.

"Yes, John. Good. Good." John scissors his fingers, changing the angle with deliberate intention, then runs them them firmly over Sherlock's prostate.

It's as though someone has issued an electric shock to Sherlock's entire body. His eyes fly open, he gasps, his back bows off the bed, and he clenches against John's fingers almost painfully.

"Oh my God."

"Good? Again?"

Sherlock is shaking, but manages to nod. "Yes. God. Please. But...slow. And a little lighter? That was...a lot."

John kisses him softly, then scissors his fingers for a few agonizing moments before positioning them again and brushing over the tiny nub of nerves. 

Sherlock moans, deep and guttural, but he manages to stay more relaxed this time. John refines his technique, alternating long, slow, scissoring drags to provide a stretch with short, light brushes against Sherlock's prostate for stimulation. Sherlock trembles against him, then reaches up for the back of John's neck and pulls him in for a bruising kiss.

John withdraws briefly to add more lube to his fingers, then presses forward with three this time. Sherlock keens and John kisses him hungrily, pressing his tongue forward into Sherlock's mouth until Sherlock is overwhelmed, pliant and agonizingly aroused, putty in John's hands. They carry on like that for a long time-- but minutes and seconds have evaporated, lost in the headiness of the moment.

John is hard as well, but his own arousal feels like a vague afterthought, secondary to the searing heat of Sherlock's. He pulls back, and Sherlock whimpers at the loss of John's lips as John sits up and settles back on his own heels and turns his attention to his fingers.

"I think you're ready," John breathes. He's done this twice before with women, but they were both experienced in the act already and had been very confident in the process. But this time, he and Sherlock just have to figure it out together. "How do you feel? Okay?"

"I feel...good. Strange, but good."

John presses his fingers in and out a few more times, adding a bit more lube. Finally he withdraws and turns to where he's left the condom on the bedside table, applying it as quickly as he can, before Sherlock starts inevitably complaining.

When he turns back to Sherlock, he's startled to see how _lost_ Sherlock looks. He seems so vulnerable like this, chest rising and falling unsteadily, a sheen of sweat coating his curls and pressing them to his forehead. John reaches forward with his clean hand and brushes them back, then kisses Sherlock's forehead gently.

"Still want to keep going? We can stop."

"No. I'm ready."

John takes a steadying breath. "Okay. So, for the first time, I've read this works best if you're on your hands and knees, it's easiest in terms of the angle." Sherlock nods quickly and scrambles to change positions, but John grabs his shoulder and stops him, looking Sherlock straight in the eyes.

"Sherlock, now listen to me. The thing about this position is that it means I won't be able to see your face, so I need you to _communicate_ with me, okay? I won't be able to see if you're in pain or distressed. If something doesn't feel right, if it's too much, or if you just need to take a break, I need you to _speak up_ , okay? Don't try to push through it, you don't need to be a hero. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nods solemnly.

"And if you do need to stop, Sherlock, it doesn't mean we have to stop forever. Figuring stuff like this out, it takes time, and practice, okay? We may not get it right on the first try, hell, we might not get it right on the fiftieth try. But just because it doesn't work out tonight doesn't mean we won't keep trying. So don't just push through because you're afraid you'll scare me off. I'm not going anywhere. Understood?"

Sherlock nods again.

"Promise me you'll speak up. I need to hear you say it."

"I promise, John."

"Okay." John smiles warmly. "Hands and knees."

Sherlock shifts gracefully into position and John crawls up behind him, wondering absently how Sherlock could still move with such grace while John was so keyed up he could barely stay upright. He applies more lube to his fingers and stretches Sherlock a bit more in this position, and Sherlock moans appreciatively. Then he slowly withdraws his fingers, lines himself up, and presses just the head inside.

It's _tight_. Not simply good tight, but _holy hell how do people do this I'm a doctor and I objectively understand the mechanics here but there is no way on God's green earth that this is going to work oh my God oh my God oh my God._

Sherlock grunts and reaches forward to grip the headboard, knuckles white and arms tight. John freezes, and takes a few deep breaths, willing the panic to leave his mind. He could do this. They could do this.

"John. John, _please_. Don't make me beg. God, _please_."

"Okay, okay. Sherlock, I'm going to start pressing forward right now, and I want you to bear down and press back against me. We need to go really, really slowly here. Okay?"

"Yes, John." Sherlock's voice is high and tight. 

John reaches up and runs his hands up and down Sherlock's back reassuringly. "Breathe for me a few times, okay? Deep breaths. I need you to relax for me now, okay?"

Sherlock nods and breathes in and out slowly, and John can feel his muscles relaxing. John places his hands gently on Sherlock's hips and guides himself slowly forward. Deeper. Deeper.

Sherlock presses back, bearing down, issuing a choked-out groan that goes straight to John's cock. Then suddenly Sherlock seizes up, and John freezes.

"John, stop. Wait."

"Should I pull out?"

"No, just...stay there. Give me a second." Sherlock's breath sounds ragged and strained.

"Breathe, Sherlock. Slow, deep breaths. You're okay. We're okay."

Sherlock shudders. "God, you're huge."

Despite himself, John laughs. "Nah, I just take the precaution of a good coat and a tight friend."

"It's not _funny_ ," Sherlock huffs, but he's laughing too, shoulders shaking, and suddenly the two of them have dissolved into giggles.

Once they collect themselves, Sherlock feels much more relaxed. "You can keep going now. I'm ready." So John steels himself and presses forward once more, this time in one easy slide, and suddenly he's bottomed out and he is truly, fully _inside_.

Sherlock moans again, all traces of laughter erased and replaced with sheer, raw arousal. He feels so good that John almost can't breathe, he can't think, and he has to fight every urge he has to just start thrusting with wild abandon.

Finally, Sherlock speaks up. "John? You should start moving now."

So John does, in long, slow drags, deliberately adjusting his angle to brush Sherlock's prostate lightly on the upstroke. Sherlock still feels unimaginably tight, and John reaches for the lube and squeezes some onto his fingers, then reaches down to where they're joined.

He's not prepared for how insanely erotic the sight is--suddenly, his brain is screaming, _You're fucking Sherlock Holmes! You're fucking Sherlock Holmes!_ and the message goes straight to his cock and before he even realizes it, he's on the edge of coming. He snaps his hips back as fast as he can and grips the base of his cock, hard, fighting back against the impending ecstasy.

He staves off disaster, but Sherlock is glaring back accusatorially over his shoulder. "What the hell are you doing? Don't stop!"

"If you must know, I'm trying not to prematurely ejaculate and end this party when it's just getting started."

"Thought you'd have better stamina than that, Watson."

"Not my fault you're the tightest piece of arse I've ever had, Holmes," and he gently slaps his cheek.

Sherlock bursts out laughing, which only causes him to constrict around John more, driving him back to the edge. "Oh GOD, don't laugh, you're making it worse!" John is laughing now too, and the two of them dissolve into giggles for a good minute before they're finally able to control themselves.

John adjusts himself. "Alright. I think I'm good now. Get down on your elbows, I think that angle might make this better for both of us."

Sherlock obliges, and John commences thrusting, slow and steady, the new angle allowing him to stimulate Sherlock's prostate more consistently. He squeezes more lube onto his hand and reaches around Sherlock, and he's relieved to find Sherlock is still hard. Some of the sites John had read had mentioned that some men lose their erections entirely during penetration, which John had found unsettling, even if he objectively knew it didn't mean anything. Luckily, Sherlock seemed to be having no problem staying erect, and John begins to move his hand over Sherlock's length in time with his thrusts.

"Oh God, _yes_ ," Sherlock hisses, and begins gyrating his hips, seeking more friction on his cock as John finds a new angle to deepen his penetration.

It's _good_. It is so good, and for the life of him, John cannot figure out why he'd been so terrified of this. It was sex, plain and simple, hard and raw and primitive and so wholly consuming and ecstatically satisfying.

"More. John, please, I need more." Sherlock sounds whiney, but there's a note of desperation in his voice that turns John's arousal up a notch.

"Harder? Faster?"

"I don't know, both, I think, please, I just...more, more, I need _more_ ," Sherlock babbles.

John does his best to oblige, but he's still hesitant knowing that this is Sherlock's first time and he doesn't want to push him too far. There's still a risk of injury in all of this, and John is a doctor through and through-- _do no harm_.

Sherlock's having none of it. "GOD, please, I won't break, I swear, I just need you to--"

"Sherlock, take it easy here, okay? We're still figuring out--"

Sherlock audibly snarls and pushes John's hand away from his cock, replacing it with his own, and begins to jerk himself in desperate, fast strokes, a low whine rising from his throat.

"You're pushy for a bottom."

"Are you surprised? Anyway, taking care of it myself seems to be the only way I'll get what I want," snaps Sherlock.

He's egging John on, and John knows it, but some primitive part of John's brain lights up in indignation, rising to the challenge. _He's John-Three-Continents-Watson, for God's sake! Like hell he's going to leave a lover to satisfy himself!_ Usually by this point John has rendered his conquests non-verbal, and here Sherlock is talking like they're sharing afternoon tea.

Then, in a final provocation, Sherlock heaves an exaggerated sigh.

It's the last straw. John's self control flies out the window.

"I'll SHOW you what you want," John growls dangerously.

John leans forward and presses his forearm across Sherlock's shoulder blades and shoves his torso, hard, down into the mattress. Sherlock resists for a moment by reflex, but then his arm goes out from under him and John forces him down, holding him there sternly until he takes the hint and gives up, face and chest flush against the mattress. Sherlock's left hand grips the sheets helplessly as his right hand continues its ministrations on his own cock, and he scrambles to adjust his knees to hold his arse up in this new position.

Satisfied, John rights himself and grips both of Sherlock's hips, _hard_ , and _moves_ , no longer brushing against his prostate but instead aiming directly at it, striking it with each frantic thrust. 

Sherlock _howls_. John can see Sherlock's arm moving blurrily as he frantically jerks himself, even faster than before, and John does his best to match Sherlock's tempo as he pistons into him.

Sherlock has utterly surrendered, and John takes total control to deliver the pleasure Sherlock so desperately sought. A filthy litany that would make a sailer blush is pouring out of those cupid's-bow lips in that rumbling baritone voice, an eclectic combination of profanity and pleas to every deity in the books and John's name over and over again, until it all blends together into rough, guttural cries that punch up out of Sherlock as John grips his hips forcefully and holds him still, pummeling his prostate relentlessly.

Then Sherlock seizes up and he's _coming, coming,_ clamping down around John's cock in waves of delicious heat, his body vibrating, a ragged shout torn from his throat as he loses himself so completely he can't remember how to breathe.

John didn't even realize he was close to coming himself, but the sensation of Sherlock's orgasm around his cock tears through him and then he's right there with him, emptying himself in fast, frantic thrusts, pulling Sherlock's hips back violently against his own and desperately seeking more of that incredible, consuming heat.

And then, everything is quiet. Sherlock's face is still pressed to the mattress, but his right hand has slipped out from beneath him and is splayed, come-covered, beside him. His back is slick with sweat, and his breath comes in heaving gasps.

John pulls out as quickly and unceremoniously as he can, and tips Sherlock onto his side, his legs clearly gone to jelly. Sherlock's eyes are unfocused and his hair is matted and slick with sweat, but to John's great relief, he is grinning like an idiot.

John smiles down at him. "Okay?"

Sherlock stares back up at him for a split second, and then surges up to meet John's lips, the kiss wet and warm and satiating.

"I'll take that as a yes. I'm just going to get us some flannels to clean up with, okay?" Sherlock nods and sighs contentedly. 

John gives himself a quick rinse in the bathroom, then returns with some damp flannels and a glass of water, to find that Sherlock hasn't moved.

"Here you go, we need to clean ourselves up." He dangles a flannel in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock is still utterly blissed out. "Mrmph. Can't move."

John heaves a sigh and then does it himself, wiping the come off of Sherlock's right hand and spent cock, then pushing him onto his stomach and parting his cheeks. He does a quick survey to check for damage, and upon confirming there were no tears, does his best to wipe up at least some of the lube that had pooled there and run down Sherlock's thighs.

Satisfied, he tosses the flannel the ground and curls up next to Sherlock, holding him close.

Eventually Sherlock seems to come around, and twists on his side to face John. 

Sherlock pauses, then speaks. "We should lose the condom next time."

"And why's that?"

"I've had lots of time to have elaborate fantasies about sex, and they all involve your come."

Sherlock's rarely so blunt, and John barks out a laugh.

"Is that so? Any particular fantasies you'd like to share?"

Sherlock grins. "One where we get home after a case and before we've even had a chance to take our coats off, you bend me over the back of the sofa and take me, unprepared. I've been wanking to that one for ages."

"Ages, eh? Even before I kissed you?"

"Even before that."

"Pervert."

They both laugh, then John returns to seriousness. "We'll need to get tested."

Sherlock shrugs. "I had a full panel last time I was in rehab, and I haven't been with anyone since. I'm clean." The casual way he mentions rehab makes John flinch internally, but he does his best not to show it.

"Be that as it may, I'd feel better if we both did it together."

"If it gets your come in my arse, your wish is my command."

"You are an absolute slag, Sherlock Holmes."

"Why John Watson, you flatter me."

John grins and winks impishly, and Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes, succumbing to fatigue. It strikes John that they've never slept together before; after all their previous encounters, they'd retired to their separate rooms. But tonight, staying together feels easy, right.

Sherlock drifts off to sleep quickly for once, but John is surprised to find himself wide awake, all post-coitus drowsiness evaporated. He finds himself staring intently at Sherlock, who is lying peacefully on his stomach, the blankets pushed down around his waist. The skin of his back looks impossibly pale in the moonlight, and John reaches out to touch it, expecting it to feel cool as porcelain, otherworldly.

Instead, he finds it surprisingly warm. His fingers find the groove of Sherlock's spine, and he indulges himself, running them up and down the flawless expanse. Sherlock hums contentedly in his sleep.

And somewhere deep in John's consciousness, the image of John's perfect happy ending-- his picket fence, his pretty wife, his boisterous children-- fades like a Polaroid developing in reverse, evaporating into the ether. 

He doesn't replace it with an image of a future with Sherlock. John is a pragmatist, and he knows that whatever this is with Sherlock, it is fleeting, lightning in a bottle. It is here, and now, but it is not enduring. He doesn't fool himself, picturing them adopting a pet or raising a family, or envision them growing old together, retiring to a cottage in Somerset to keep bees; the thought of it is too preposterous to even consider. Considering the breed of criminal they're usually up against, he's surprised every time they make it through a case unscathed; old age seems improbable.

So instead, on his first night sleeping next to Sherlock, he doesn't conjure a new vision of a perfect future at all. Instead, he simply lets the old one go. His future is a blank slate, and instead of bringing him terror, it brings him an exhilarating new thrill. He is not aimless. He his finally free.

He basks in the afterglow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL, this is the porniest thing I've ever written. Not sorry.


	3. Chapter 3

Their fourth date is perfect. Their third date was perfect, too, and John knows he should have seen it coming, but somewhere between the sidewalk of St. Bart's and that moment, he'd somehow forgotten the unspoken social mores that are implicitly understood by a majority of the dating populace. So when, after their third date, Mary had suggested they go back to his flat, John had found himself entirely unprepared.

He'd made an excuse--a flimsy one, at best: a family obligation early the next morning. Mary nodded and said she understood. As they stood outside the restaurant and he kissed her cheek in parting, she'd murmured a soft apology.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. Maybe it's too soon, we should just put this on pause..."

John refused to hear it. "There's nothing to apologize for. I really do have a family thing in the morning."

She smiled and nodded, tight-lipped, as she flagged down a cab.

John went home and drank a half a bottle of whiskey to steel his resolve. He would not let Mary go. But there was no way he could invite her over when is flat was like...this.

The flat itself was nothing to be ashamed of. Three weeks after Sherlock's death, John had gone to an ATM to make a standard withdrawal, only to find that his account balance had increased by tenfold. The invisible hand of the British government at work, he'd assumed.

So he'd called up the realtor friend of Harry's that she kept pushing on him (perhaps just to get him off her sofa, but he hoped there was a shred of benevolence at work there somewhere), and with his newly-increased budget, the realtor had easily found him an ideal flat two blocks from the surgery.

The flat was in a complex intended for traveling investment bankers and visiting diplomats in London for long-term stays. It came sparsely furnished but well-appointed, from the high-thread-count sheets to the standard Scandinavian flatware in the kitchen. 

"So you really need it fully furnished?" the realtor asked him, incredulous. "Are you returning from somewhere?"

"Afghanistan," he replied, with a tight smile. It didn't feel like a lie.

The realtor nodded and widened her plastic smile. "Afghanistan? Why, thank you for your service." She'd winked.

In retrospect, she may have been hitting on him. But John only remembers these events through a fog of grief so thick, he's not entirely sure that what he remembers is reality at all. His memories during the period after Sherlock's death emerge as cloudy vignettes from the recesses of his mind, unreliable and distorted by permeating waves of sorrow.

But somehow he'd ended up here, in his perfectly-pleasant and unobjectionable flat, but he was acutely aware that if he brought Mary back here in its current state, she'd sense something was profoundly wrong.

It's simply that the flat was a completely blank state. From the eggshell-colored walls to the standard-issue art prints to the clean white lines of the IKEA-brand plates, it was the habitat of a man who stands for nothing. Who comes from nowhere. Who is no one. And John's deepest, most profound fear was that Mary would somehow see this.

There was only one solution. And half a bottle of whiskey in, he was prepared to face it.

He'd made his way to the linen closet in the narrow hallway and opened the door. On the top shelf was a single box. And within that box were all his earthly possessions.

Harry had been a real trooper in the weeks after Sherlock's death. She'd clearly been doing penance for years of dependence on John, and and her dedication showed. When he'd asked her to go back to 221B to collect his short list of belongings, she'd agreed, no questions asked.

The day Harry went back to 221B, John sat motionless on her sofa the entire time she was gone. He didn't reflect or reminisce. He didn't cry or rage. He simply sat, staring at the the peeling wallpaper in her sitting room, for four hours straight.

At that point, this activity wasn't unusual for him. Sherlock had only been gone for two weeks. John only had the capacity to sit and stare. It was that or collapse in on himself and let the grief pull him under, only to emerge hours later, wrung-out and lost.

The room had grown dim with twilight when Harry returned home, toting a single box. She placed the box on the table before him, then paused, clearly at a loss for what to say. When she finally spoke it was in whispered tones, like he was a patient on his death bed.

"I found everything you said. You sure this is it?"

John nodded, wordlessly.

"Mrs. Hudson was there. She...she asked if you'd call her to let her know what to do with the rest of it. There's a lot...that was his. You know."

John turned his head slowly to meet her eyes for the first time since she'd arrived home.

"I mean...as soon as you're ready, John. No rush. Just ring her when you can."

John never rang.

So when he found his own flat, he brought his single box with him, and stuffed it on the highest-most shelf of his linen closet, closed the door, and willed himself to forget.

But now, it was time to come to terms with all that. He needed to invite Mary over to his flat. And he needed her to know that he was simply a normal bachelor, looking to make a good impression with his posh flat in a desirable neighborhood. Not a ghost dwelling in a cookie-cutter residence to fool the neighbours into believing he was real.

The box stared down at him from its perch on the shelf. He reached for it, then turned on his heel and retreated back to his whiskey bottle. He contemplated pouring another glass, shrugged, and then took three solid pulls straight form the bottle. Then he marched back down the hallway, pulled the box off its shelf, toted it to the sitting room, and reached inside.

The first item he withdrew was his mug. Easy. He took it and placed it next to the kitchen sink, as though waiting to be washed. It looked casual and unassuming. Perfect. He returned to the box.

Next up, he pulled out four books. Simple enough. He strode over to the bookshelf beside the television and lined them up. He paused on the fourth one; a page remained dog-eared about a third of the way through.

He remembered this book well. He'd been reading it that week in Cornwall, the week when he and Sherlock--

_No._

No, this wasn't what this is for. That was over, gone. He jammed the book unceremoniously on the shelf beside the other three.

The rest of the box emptied easily: the egg timer shaped like an egg that Mrs. Hudson had given him the third time Sherlock forgot he'd started breakfast and left the eggs on the stove ("I can't have my house smelling like a bad perm for the next twenty years, but Heaven knows he'll never remember to set it! So I'm giving it to you, maybe you'll remember!"), a framed art print of the patent for the first stethoscope (a surprisingly thoughtful birthday present from Molly, but John had been too lazy to actually hang it in his bedroom; he'd left it leaning against the wall beside his dresser indefinitely), a decorative oven mitt and a ceramic cookie jar featuring the logo of the Cross Keys Inn (part of a "thank you" package from the inn's unscrupulous owners, along with a vegetarian cookbook John had long since thrown out), a fake plant Harry had given him for Christmas (which he strongly suspected she'd grabbed from her own sitting room as an afterthought on her way out the door to meet him for their planned holiday gathering), two postcards from New Zealand that he'd propped up on his dresser after his disastrous trip with Sarah and promptly forgotten were there, four James Bond DVDs, three Star Wars DVDs, a bottle opener shaped like the Superman insignia (a client gift following the case of "The Geek Interpreter", one of the few client gifts that was actually useful), and a refrigerator magnet with the list of contact information for other doctors from the surgery.

He was feeling fairly confident until he got to the bottom of the box. There, lying like an undetonated grenade, was his laptop.

It occurred to him that to some, going all these months without a laptop would be inconceivable. But John was still a luddite at heart; even when he was with Sherlock, he used his laptop primarily to research cases and update his blog. Without Sherlock, there was no need for it.

And yet there it sat, innocent and unassuming, at the bottom of the box. John reached for it, his hand trembling (whether from the whiskey or nerves, he couldn't be sure at that point).

His hand closed around it. He hoisted it up and deposited it haphazardly on the coffee table, as though perhaps he'd just finished the type of internet-browsing session a _normal_ person might have; perhaps the news, and some Facebook, and a few clicks around YouTube. Yes, leaving the laptop out certainly suggested a level of inhabitation that had previously been absent from the sitting room.

Unsteadily, John rose to his feet and deposited the empty box back in the closet, then returned to the sofa. He glared at the laptop. The laptop glared back, unmoved.

It suddenly occurred to John that he'd never bothered to wonder what had happened when Mrs. Hudson went through the rest of Sherlock's things. Surely she'd binned most of them (after all, what use would she have for a mounted bull head in earphones?), but what about his clothes? His robe?

Then he imagined Mrs. Hudson opening up the bedside table and encountering the bottles of lube, the handcuffs, the blindfold, that ridiculous vibrator they'd tried that one time... and suddenly a laugh burbled up out of some recess deep inside him, unexpected and strange. And then he was laughing and laughing so hard he couldn't stop, tears streaming down his cheeks, imagining his scandalized landlady encountering their trove of secret treasures.

By the time he stopped laughing, his stomach ached and he barely had the strength to dry his eyes. He should go to bed, he thought. But instead he'd simply tipped onto his side and fallen asleep on the sofa, whiskey-soaked dreams a welcome escape.

The next morning, hung over and half-asleep, John somehow made it to work on time. And his first order of business was to find Mary and ask her out to dinner the following night.

So their fourth date is perfect. John makes a reservation at a trendy wine bar that had just opened two doors down from the surgery (which Mary had mentioned once or twice in passing--and she seems to appreciate the thoughtfulness of his choice in venue). She is all warm smiles and sweet laughter and dry wit, glowing in the dim candlelight, sipping her wine with her perfect rosy lips. The conversation is easy and John feels relaxed and confident. As they squabble good-naturedly over the last bite of tiramisu, John's mind is made up.

"Would you like to come back to my place for some coffee?" He holds his breath.

Mary gives him a sly look. "Why, coffee would be lovely."

They barely make it through the front door before her lips are on his. His arms wrap around her waist and his mind reels with how fantastic all of it feels--to be held and wanted again. His fingers don't tremble as he unzips her dress. His eyes stare deep into hers as she removes his jumper.

He gives her his tried and true disclaimer speech as she moves to pull off his t-shirt ("I was injured in Afghanistan and there's scarring on my shoulder. It doesn't hurt, but the appearance can be off-putting. If it bothers you, I can leave my shirt on, or I won't be offended if you leave"). She rolls her eyes. "I'm a nurse, for God's sake. Trust me, I'll have seen worse."

And from there, it is pure and simple. He had worried, deep down, what it would be like--his first time, after Sherlock. He hadn't worried about impotence, per se, but he'd agonized over whether he'd be able to stay in the moment; would his mind keep comparing the feeling of her skin to Sherlock's? Would his hands remember their way around soft curves and smooth edges, instead of hard planes and bony angles? Would his lips miss the way that cupid's-bow mouth had so perfectly slotted against his?

No. He had nothing to fear. Mary was fiery, present, _consuming_. She was as electric and charismatic with her body as she was with her discourse, John following her eagerly on the trail she blazed for both of them. Her confidence was intoxicating. John was enamored. _This_. How could he have been afraid of _this?_ Finally, finally, he was _alive_.

Afterwards, they lie side-by-side in bed, Mary dozing peacefully, angelic in the moonlight. He closes his eyes. Faintly, an image flickers back into his mind. A white picket fence. A boy and a girl, at play in the yard. A face in the kitchen window; blonde-haired, rosy-cheeked, feminine and sweet. His home. 

Suddenly, his chest tightens. He had said farewell to all that a long time ago, in what felt like a different lifetime, on a night not so unlike this one. He had let go of that dream and set out on an uncharted course, into dangerous waters, reckless and unafraid. _Want to see some more? Oh God, yes._

But now, before him, there is a lighthouse in the storm, guiding him to a safe harbour. He needs only let go and let the current bring him in.

Something struggles deep within him, thrashing darkly beneath the surface. _The safe harbour is not for you, John Watson. Turn away, back into the waves. No harbour can contain you._

Jade green eyes and alabaster skin flash before him, smiling a jester's smile. But then the flesh pulls taught and gives way to rot, splitting away from the bone, revealing the skull beneath, cold and inanimate, jaw gaping grotesquely.

John sits bolt upright, sweating, his heart racing and his breath coming in ragged gasps. _Oh God, not tonight, not while she's here, why tonight?_

But Mary is already awake, wrapping her arms around him.

"John, are you alright?"

John steadies his breathing and looks into her eyes, willing himself to calm down.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'm so sorry. It happens sometimes. After...after the war. It happens. I'm sorry. So sorry."

She looks at him for a moment, her eyes scanning his face and processing his obvious distress. He expects her to get up and leave. Instead, she presses her cool hand to his flushed cheek, and brings her lips to his.

"It's alright, John. It's alright. You're safe now. Can you go back to sleep?"

"Yes. Yes, I think so. Let's just...sleep."

She pulls his arms around her and settles back against him. He lets her breathing guide him back to reality, back to the calm. Back to the safe harbour.

John lies in the dark, and waits for the afterglow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deepest apologies to anyone new to this series who was hoping for a happy ending; I'm a TV-canon purist at heart, so my goal is only to offer an alternate interpretation to what's been presented to us on-screen. No fix-its here. Just the unending agony of Moffat and Gatiss' sadism.


End file.
